Love Sick
by torrasaur
Summary: Sherlock is sick and his Doctor Watson treats him. One-shot fluff. Excuse the title, it's tacky but fits perfectly.


_**(17:47)**__**Can **__**you **__**let **__**me **__**in? **__**I've **__**forgotten **__**my **__**key. **__**John**_

_**(17.54) Are you even at home? John**_

_**(17:56) You could at least answer your phone. J**_

_**(17:57) Sherlock!**_

**(17:59) My phone was in the bedroom. If you had shouted, I would have heard you. SH**

_**(18:03) The door, Sherlock!**_

After at least another 3 minutes of waiting in the cold, John heard footsteps coming down the stairs and then a slight clink, of the door being unlocked. Not opened though, as the next noise John heard was footsteps going up the stairs again. Typical, John sighed under his breath, juggling the shopping bags in his hand while opening the door. The doctor managed to shuffle his way in through the door and up the stairs to Flat 221B, where he found his flat-mate back in what John had come to know as his normal position of lying on the sofa, sometimes curling into the foetal position.

"Where's Mrs Hudson?" John asked as he scoured the kitchen for at least one tiny glimpse of a free space to put down the shopping. Every surface was covered in paper or boxes or human organs.

"She didn't say..." Sherlock started, but trailed off as he noticed John for the first time since coming in. He was completely soaked, and he was throwing his drenched jacket on the coffee table, slightly ruffling his wet hair, probably in an attempt to dry it. Sherlock looked down slightly, and met John's gaze. He realised he had just stopped in the middle of a sentence.

"And...?" John prompted, confused at Sherlock's stares.

"And" Sherlock shook his head slightly, clearing his past thoughts and attempting to continue with his original sentence, "I noticed the zip on her jacket pocket wasn't fully done up. Which means she must have had her purse in her pocket. Mrs Hudson always uses her card, so she was using loose change today. The most common place to use change is public transport. She's a walker, the only reason she would go far enough to take transport is if she were visiting her brother in Highgate, who hasn't phoned her like he normally does every Friday. I noticed a newspaper was covering her phone in the hallway with Wednesday's date on it when I went down to let you in. They must have fallen out. Knowing Mrs Hudson, she's away to apologize, even though I'm guessing it wasn't her fault."

Despite Sherlock's inhuman speaking speed, John had already sat down with a glass and two paracetamol in his hand, and was holding them in Sherlock's direction.

"You know how I think that's fantastic? It's turning a little worrying when you do it to me and Mrs Hudson. I swear you know everything about me."

"Oh nonsense John. Only about 86%. Why are these things in my face?" the Consulting Detective finally exploded.

"They're for you. Honestly, for a genius, you aren't half stupid sometimes."

"Yes, thank you John. Why are they for me?"

"Because you are ill, Sherlock. Now stop arguing. I'm a Doctor."

The young man did as he was told, for once, swallowing the tablets and lying back.

John took the glass, and leaning over put it on the table. He sat back, to cover Sherlock with a blanket.

"Really John?"

"Yes, Sherlock! What is your problem with blankets? Anyway, you're shivering, and the fireplace is full of human hair. Again!"

"It's an experiment..." Sherlock mumbled to himself, closing his eyes.

The doctor leaned over his patient, gently resting the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead.

"You're burning up. Come on, we need to get you in to bed."

"No, no, John. There are cases, Lestrade needs me, and my brother has been dropping hints of -" he tried to argue, to no prevail.

"Never mind Lestrade or Mycroft. You're sick and you are my patient. To bed with you."

After a few more attempts of running from John's grasp, Sherlock finally slumped into his single bed. It was a dark room. The blinds were perpetually closed, there was a large rug on the floor, too large for the tiny box room. It was the smaller of the two bedrooms in 221B, but he had insisted that John take the larger one, due to his lack in sleeping habits. John had never actually seen the inside of Sherlock's room. It wasn't the most pleasant of experiences.

"Are you sure you want to be in here? You're sick enough as it is, I don't want you catching anything else" John said as he eyed an indescribable matter in an old test-tube.

"Don't fuss over me. I'm f -" Sherlock coughed and spluttered, disproving any argument he was about to make.

John simply tucked the blanket over him again, placed the glass of water next to the bed and looked over at Sherlock, only to be met by an intense stare.

"What?" he asked incredulously.

"How could you tell?"

"I'm a Doctor."

"I'm a good actor."

"I know you, Sherlock. I may not be able to deduce every single detail, but I can tell when there's something not right about you."

Sherlock didn't answer. He simply closed his eyes. John reached over, and gently stroked the young man's hair. He didn't mean to do it, it was just a simple reaction. It was only when he caught himself doing it, that it seemed strange. It was nice just being able to touch his hero. Usually he just stared or ran along after him. Despite what Sherlock said, he was John's superhero. Sure, he had faults, but he was still a human being. Albeit, a very, very clever human being. He was the character a child-John had always dreamt of. His dream man.

"John?" Sherlock softly asked, after a few minutes of blissful silence.

"Mmm?"

"I'm cold."

"I could get more blankets...?"

The detective didn't answer.

"I think Mrs Hudson has a few..." John tried again. Sherlock simply didn't move.

John took the existing blanket and folded it over slightly. John kicked off his boots, and slid his legs in next to Sherlock's. He still didn't move, but the air seemed warmer and more electric. Sherlock was content. When Sherlock was happy, everyone around him was. Something changed in the air, it didn't seem so cold and uninviting. Neither of them moved. They stayed utterly motionless, in fear of scaring the other off.

"John..."

Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, "Yes?" John calmly said.

"Thank you."

"I-it's no problem"

"For everything" Sherlock continued.

John turned to face his... patient, only to be met with Sherlock's infamous, tense glare. His whole body had turned to face John, lying slightly curled but with his long legs down, his toes almost curling with his Doctor's.

"I – um – yes, that's fine. It's all fine" he managed to mumble. Panicked by the proximity of his best friend, John shifted on to his back, staring up at the ceiling. It didn't make any difference, he could still feel the hot breath in his ear, smell the sweet scent, feel the fingertips tipping over his side. Sherlock's long fingers walked up John's side, until they slipped and gently stroked his skin gently. He held his breath as he waited for John's reaction, no matter how bad it might be. The consulting detective had fallen for the man shortly after meeting him. But he had missed his chance. John asked if he had a boyfriend, a clear opening but Sherlock just shot him down because that's what he does. He doesn't let anyone in, he can do perfectly fine on his own. Only he can't. He needs someone to restore his humanity when he forgets it. Which is often. John does it as if it's normal, without calling him a freak or psychopath. John did it perfectly. John was perfect. This was all thought in Sherlock's head in less than 20 seconds. What if he had ruined everything? Sherlock slightly raised his head, checking the still man's reaction. He propped himself up, turned towards the other man. He had to say something.

"Not good?" The detective asked uncertainly.

"Bit not good, yeah" he replied while grabbing Sherlock's face with his two hands and pressed his own hard against him, with such force that it knocked him back to the bed, with John falling on him. They didn't let go, as the need to be as close as possible was impossible to deny. Their lips pressed together so frantically as John did not let go of his Sherlock, holding on so forcefully as to never let him go. But Sherlock was stronger, if only slightly and managed to pull away from his John's firm grasp.

"What?" he managed to breathe.

"I'm sick."

"I am aware, Sherlock." as he tried to kiss the man before he could talk but Sherlock was fast.

"Now is probably not a good time. I don't want you catching this and I'm starting to feel... a little... um..."

The Doctor chuckled slightly, as it was obvious the harsh medicine was taking its effect.

"IluvvyouJohnn" he managed to slur out, before his limbs relaxed and his eyes gently closed.

"I love you too Sherlock" he whispered, stroking his hair again and stroking him into his deep, peaceful slumber.

"Even when you're sick or being stubborn or risking your life to prove you're clever, I'll always love you" John told the empty room.


End file.
